The High Mountains of Portugal (4 page)

He points with a finger that aims to make visible the magic that takes place within the opaque walls of the engine. “Here moto-naphtha vapour is sprayed by the carburetor into the explosion chambers. The magnet activates the sparking plugs; the vapour is thereby ignited and explodes. The pistons, here, are pushed down, which…”

Tomás understands nothing. He stares dumbly. At the end of the triumphant explanations, his uncle reaches in to pick up a thick booklet lying on the seat of the driving compartment. He places it in his nephew's hand. “This is the automobile manual. It will make clear what you might not have understood.”

Tomás peers at the manual. “It's in French, Uncle.”

“Yes. Renault Frères is a French company.”

“But—”

“I've included a French-Portuguese dictionary in your kit. You must take utmost care to lubricate the automobile properly.”

“
Lubricate
it?” His uncle might as well be
speaking
French.

Lobo ignores his quizzical expression. “Aren't the mudguards handsome? Guess what they're made of?” he says, slapping one. “Elephant ears! I had them custom-made as a souvenir from Angola. The same with the outside walls of the cabin: only the finest-grain elephant hide.”

“What's this?” asks Tomás.

“The horn. To warn, to alert, to remind, to coax, to complain.” His uncle squeezes the large rubber bulb affixed to the edge of the automobile, left of the steerage wheel. A tuba-like honk, with a little vibrato, erupts out of the trumpet attached to the bulb. It is loud and attention-getting. Tomás has a vision of a rider on a horse carrying a goose under his arm like a bagpipe, squeezing the bird whenever danger is nigh, and cannot repress a cough of laughter.

“Can I try it?”

He squeezes the bulb several times. Each honk makes him laugh. He stops when he sees that his uncle is less amused and endeavours to pay attention to the renewed motoring mumbo-jumbo. These are more venerations than clarifications. If his relative's smelly metallic toy could show feelings, it would surely turn pink with embarrassment.

They come to the steerage wheel, which is perfectly round and the size of a large dinner plate. Reaching into the driving compartment again, Lobo places a hand on it. “To turn the vehicle to the left, you turn the wheel to the left. To turn the vehicle to the right, you turn the wheel to the right. To drive straight, you hold the wheel straight. Perfectly logical.”

Tomás peers closely. “But how can a stationary wheel be said to turn to the left or to the right?” he asks.

His uncle searches his face. “I'm not sure I understand what there is not to understand. Do you see the top of the wheel, next to my hand? You see it, yes? Well, imagine that there's a spot there, a little white spot. Now, if I turn the wheel
this
way”—and here he pulls on the wheel—“do you see how that little white spot moves to the
left?
Yes? Well then, the automobile will turn to the left. And do you see that if I turn the wheel
that
way”—and here he pushes the wheel—“do you see how the little white spot moves to the
right?
In that case, the automobile will turn to the right. Is the point obvious to you now?”

Tomás's expression darkens. “But look”—he points with a finger—“at the bottom of the steerage wheel! If there were a little white spot there, it would be moving in the opposite direction. You might be turning the wheel to the right, as you say, at the top, but at the bottom you're turning it to the left. And what about the sides of the wheel? As you're turning it both right and left, you're also turning one side up and the other side down. So either way, in whichever direction you spin the wheel, you're simultaneously turning it to the right, to the left, up, and down. Your claim to be turning the wheel in one particular direction sounds to me like one of those paradoxes devised by the Greek philosopher Zeno of Elea.”

Lobo stares in consternation at the steerage wheel, the top of it, the bottom of it, the sides of it. He takes a long, deep breath. “Be that as it may, Tomás, you must drive this automobile the way it was designed. Keep your eyes on the
top
of the steerage wheel. Ignore all the other sides. Shall we move on? There are other details we must cover, the operation of the clutch and of the change-speed lever, for example…” He accompanies his talk with hand and foot gestures, but neither words nor mummery spark any comprehension in Tomás. For example, what is “torque”? Did the Iberian Peninsula not get enough torque with Grand Inquisitor Torquemada? And what sane person could make sense of “double declutch”?

“I have supplied you with a few items that you'll find useful.”

His uncle pulls open the door of the cabin, which is located in its back half. Tomás leans forward to peer in. There is relative gloom within. He notes the features of the cabin. It has the elements of a domestic space, with a black sofa of the finest leather and walls and a ceiling of polished cedar strips. The front window and the side windows look like the windows of an elegant home, boasting clear, good-quality panes and gleaming metal sashes. And the back window above the sofa, so neatly framed, could well be a painting hanging on a wall. But the scale of it! The ceiling is so low. The sofa will accommodate no more than two people comfortably. Each side window is of a size that will allow only a single person to look out of it. As for the back window, if it were a painting, it would be a miniature. And to get into this confined space, one must bend down to get through the door. What happened to the opulent openness of the horse-drawn carriage? He pulls back and gazes at one of the automobile's side mirrors. It might plausibly belong in a washroom. And didn't his uncle mention something about a fire in the engine? He feels an inward sinking. This tiny habitation on wheels, with bit parts of the living room, the washroom, and the fireplace, is a pathetic admission that human life is no more than this: an attempt to feel at home while racing towards oblivion.

He has also noticed the multitude of objects in the cabin. There is his suitcase, with his few personal necessities. More important, there is his trunk of papers, which contains all sorts of essential items: his correspondence with the secretary of the Bishop of Bragança and with a number of parish priests across the High Mountains of Portugal; the transcription of Father Ulisses' diary; archival newspaper clippings on the occurrences of fires in village churches in that same region; excerpts from the logbook of a Portuguese ship returning to Lisbon in the mid-seventeenth century; as well as various monographs on the architectural history of northern Portugal. And usually, when he is not carrying it in his pocket—a folly, he reminds himself—the trunk would hold and protect Father Ulisses' invaluable diary. But suitcase and trunk are crowded alongside barrels, boxes, tin containers, and bags. The cabin is a cave of goods that would glut the Forty Thieves.

“Ali Baba, Uncle Martim! So many things? I'm not crossing Africa. I'm only going to the High Mountains of Portugal, some few days away.”

“You're going farther than you think,” his uncle replies. “You'll be venturing into lands that have never seen an automobile. You'll need the capacity to be autonomous. Which is why I've included a good canvas rain tarp and some blankets, although you might be better off sleeping in the cabin. That box there contains all the motoring tools you'll need. Next to it is the oiling can. This five-gallon metal barrel is full of water, for the radiator, and this one of moto-naphtha, the automobile's elixir of life. Resupply yourself as often as you can, because at some point you'll have to rely on your own stock. Along the way, look out for apothecaries, bicycle shops, blacksmiths, ironmongers. They'll have moto-naphtha, though they may give it another name: petroleum spirit, mineral spirit, something like that. Smell it before you buy it. I've also provided you with victuals. An automobile is best operated by a well-fed driver. Now, see if these fit.”

From a bag on the floor of the cabin, his uncle pulls out a pair of pale leather gloves. Tomás tries them on, baffled. The fit is snug. The leather is pleasingly elastic and creaks when he makes a fist.

“Thank you,” he says uncertainly.

“Take good care of them. They're from France too.”

Next his uncle hands him goggles that are big and hideous. Tomás has hardly put them on when his uncle brings out a beige coat lined with fur that reaches well below his knees.

“Waxed cotton and mink. The finest quality,” he says.

Tomás puts it on. The coat is heavy and bulky. Finally, Lobo slaps a hat on him that has straps that tie under the chin. Gloved, goggled, coated, and hatted, he feels like a giant mushroom. “Uncle,
what
is this costume for?”

“For motoring, of course. For the wind and the dust. For the rain and the cold. It
is
December. Have you not noticed the driving compartment?”

He looks. His uncle has a point. The back part of the automobile consists of the enclosed cubicle for the passengers. The driving compartment in front of it, however, is open to the elements but for the roof and a front window. There are no doors or windows on either side. Wind, dust, and rain will easily come in. He grouses internally. If his uncle hadn't cluttered the cabin with so much gear, making it impossible for him to sit within, he could take shelter there while Sabio drove the machine.

His uncle presses on. “I've included maps as good as they exist. When they're of no help, rely on the compass. You're heading north-northeast. The roads of Portugal are of the poorest quality, but the vehicle has a fine suspension system—leaf springs. They will handle any ruts. If the roads get to you, drink plenty of wine. There are two wineskins in the cabin. Avoid roadside inns and stagecoaches. They are not your friends. It's understandable. A degree of hostility is to be expected from those whose livelihood the automobile directly threatens. Right, as for the rest of the supplies, you'll figure out what's what. We should get going. Sabio, are you ready?”

“Yes, senhor,” replies Sabio with military promptness.

“Let me get my jacket. I'll drive you to the edges of Lisbon, Tomás.”

His uncle returns to the house. Tomás doffs the ludicrous motoring costume and returns it to the cabin. His uncle bounces back into the courtyard, a jacket on his back, gloves upon his hands, his cheeks flushed with excitement, exuding a nearly terrifying joviality.

“By the way, Tomás,” he bellows, “I forgot to ask: Why on earth do you so badly want to go to the High Mountains of Portugal?”

“I'm looking for something,” Tomás replies.

“What?”

Tomás hesitates. “It's in a church,” he finally says, “only I'm not sure which one, in which village.”

His uncle stands next to him and studies him. Tomás wonders whether he should say more. Whenever his uncle comes to the Museum of Ancient Art, he gazes at the exhibits with glazed eyes.

“Have you heard of Charles Darwin, Uncle?” Tomás asks.

“Yes, I've heard of Darwin,” Lobo replies. “What, is he buried in a church in the High Mountains of Portugal?” He laughs. “You want to bring his body back and give it pride of place in the Museum of Ancient Art?”

“No. Through my work I came upon a diary written on São Tomé, in the Gulf of Guinea. The island has been a Portuguese colony since the late fifteenth century.”

“A miserable one. I stopped there once on my way to Angola. I thought I might invest in some cocoa plantations there.”

“It was an important place during the slave trade.”

“Well, now it's a producer of bad chocolate. Beautiful plantations, though.”

“No doubt. By a process of deduction involving three disparate elements—the diary I've just mentioned, the logbook of a ship returning to Lisbon, and a fire in a village church in the High Mountains of Portugal—I have discovered an unsuspected treasure and located it, approximately. I'm on the brink of a great find.”

“Are you? And what is this treasure, exactly?” his uncle asks, his eyes steady on Tomás.

Tomás is sorely tempted. All these months he has told no one, especially not his colleagues, about his discovery, nor even about his research. He did it all on his own time, privately. But a secret yearns to be divulged. And in mere days the object will be found. So why not his uncle?

“It is…a religious statuary, a crucifix, I believe,” he replies.

“Just what this Catholic country needs.”

“No, you don't understand. It's a very odd crucifix. A wondrous crucifix.”

“Is it? And what does it have to do with Darwin?”

“You'll see,” Tomás replies, flushing with zeal. “This Christ on the Cross has something important to say. Of that, I am certain.”

His uncle waits for more, but more does not come. “Well, I hope it makes your fortune. Off we go,” he says. He climbs into the driver's seat. “Let me show you how to start the engine.” He claps his hands and roars, “Sabio!”

Sabio steps forward, his gaze fixed on the automobile, his hands at the ready.

“Before starting the engine, the moto-naphtha tap has to be turned to open—good man, Sabio—the throttle handle, here under the steerage wheel, has to be placed at half-admission—so—and the change-speed lever set at the neutral point, like this. Next you flick the magneto switch—here on the dashboard—to
ON.
Then you open the lid of the hood—there's no need to open the whole hood, you see that small lid there at the front?—and you press down once or twice on the float of the carburetor to flood it. See how Sabio does it? You close the lid, and all that's left after that is turning the starting handle. Then you sit in the driver's seat, take the hand brake off, get into first gear, and away you go. It's child's play. Sabio, are you ready?”